It’s impossible to write about Ramos without focusing on his boxing career, a meteoric career that flashed across the sports sky and flamed out in a classic example of self-destruction.

Or is it?

Sylvia, his wife of 32 years, now sadly his widow of four days, has other thoughts.

“He was such a good person,” she said.

She wanted to talk about Ramos, her Mando, and yet it was hard.

“I feel like part of me was ripped out,” she said softly.

So very hard.

“Mando was a good person,” she said.

She paused.

“Oh, he could be a brat,” she said.

She chuckled at the memories.

“But he was a sensitive person,” she said. “We had so many good years.”

These are the memories she treasures today.

“He liked to laugh,” she said. “We’ve got pictures of him helping kids. They’re all smiling in those pictures. They’re happy pictures.”

This is the man beyond the legend. Or after the legend.

This is the man who used his mistakes as examples for others to avoid with his Boxing Against Alcohol and Drugs nonprofit foundation (BAAD), as well as with organizations such as the Wilmington Teen Center and the Harbor Boxing Club in San Pedro.

He wanted some good to come from the bad he inflicted upon himself.

This is the boy from Long Beach who was one of the great sports stars of his time, if only for a short time, who grew up to be the man who lived in San Pedro for much of the past 40 years.

“Our granddaughter, Brittany, she’s 19, one of four grandchildren, has been reading and downloading articles about Mando on the Internet,” Sylvia said. “She said, `I knew he was a champion and all that, but I did not realize he was such a big celebrity. To me, he was just Grandpa.”‘

Just Grandpa was just about as good as they come in the ring, at 20 the world lightweight title holder.

How big was Ramos?

“His impact on the Mexican community was as big as Fernando Valenzuela and Oscar De La Hoya,” said Randy Gray, the Daily Breeze boxing writer when Ramos was on top of the world.

Gray remembers John Hall, a knowledgeable, veteran reporter and columnist on the boxing beat, offering the opinion that Ramos was, for a short time, the world’s best pound-for-pound fighter.

Van Barbieri, a San Pedro native, was the publicist for the Olympic Auditorium during the Ramos era.

How good was Ramos at his peak?

“To tell the truth, he never reached his peak,” Barbieri said.

Too much too soon, too little discipline. Far too little discipline.

Those were the general problems.

Booze and drugs. Those were the specific problems.

It’s what can happen when you’re young, think you’re bulletproof and have no concept of reality.

Some say Ramos did not train. He did train. Just not any harder than necessary. Then he partied harder. Much harder.

The hands were cobra quick. His courage was unlimited.

On top of this, he was movie-star handsome and as charismatic as they come. Boxing old-timers will tell you the arch in Southern California goes from the original “Golden Boy” Art Aragon to Ramos to De La Hoya.

Think Sugar Ray, Robinson and Leonard.

The sweet science has more than its share of sad stories. Ramos is right up there at the top. Champ at 20 with a 15-round TKO in February 1969 over Carlos Teo Cruz in the Coliseum. Over the hill and on his way to becoming a punching bag in about two years. He did not retire until 17 days short of his 27th birthday.

Dead at 59.

“It was a great waste of a great boxing talent,” Barbieri said. “He had it all: looks, talent and personality. Everybody liked him.”

Gray agrees.

“He always seemed at ease, friendly and respectful,” he said. “He wasn’t blustery or boastful. But he didn’t seem to be driven to achieve success.”

What happened was success chewed him up and spit him out.

Why discuss what went wrong now that he’s gone?

Because he devoted the later years of his life to trying to help others understand what not to do. That’s what Ramos wanted.

It’s like the tribute they’re planning to hold for him on July 18 at the Longshoreman’s Memorial Hall in Wilmington from 4-8 p.m.

“We’ll have a buffet,” Sylvia said. “We’ll show film clips of his career and some interviews with him. People will be able to talk about him if they wish. You can stay for five minutes or for four hours.”

The salute to his life as well as his career is open to the public.

“We’re not going to have a funeral or a service,” Sylvia said. “We’re going to have an open house. This is what Mando wanted.”

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